


Pounds Per Square Inch

by Zabbers



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Domination, F/M, M/M, Manhandling, Other, PWP without Porn, The Valiant (Doctor Who), Vault Porn (Doctor Who), Whump, flashfic on pre-made pizza dough, foot violence, nudity as Time Lords measure it, the Doctor on his knees, there's no pounding though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 17:06:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20343637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zabbers/pseuds/Zabbers
Summary: Masters and Doctors and the narrow heel of a woman's shoe.





	Pounds Per Square Inch

The Master had enjoyed this in the past, with Lucy’s help. He’d had to force the Doctor, then, had to get the goons to hold him down, pull his ratty trainers from him as he struggled, kicking, goaded out of his endlessly provocative patience only with enough cruelty, enough second-hand pain that even he couldn’t look silent and tight-lipped away. 

The Doctor, barefoot, vulnerable: the Master’s only regret had been that he couldn’t risk taking him on a walk along the rubble of the planet below, leashed and bleeding and carrying his own water bowl between his teeth like a dog or in his cupped hands as a mendicant--on display, always on display, and always made to see. 

Nominally, this was a punishment, a price, a demonstration. The Master had made sure everyone was watching, and then he’d brought Lucy in, Lucy with her prim skirt and her perfect court shoes, still, in those days, wearing the costume of the politician’s wife, Lucy of the exposed calf, the ankles and the knees, Lucy, human form and human mind, representative of the human race. 

A single goon had held him, selected especially for his size and because the Master had noted the trace of compassion or desire or interest in him; whatever it was it caused him to react with a richness absent in the other bodyguards. He’d been instructed to move in close and tight, arms looped and locked (“for security”), pressed up behind him chest to back, so that when Lucy stamped on his foot the Doctor recoiled into the body supporting him, curling. Then pulled upright again, as though flipped inside out, because there was still the other foot and the Master helping Lucy to balance, with her hand on his as she lifted her exquisite leg…

And now, and now--it’s just the two of them. It is neither better nor worse. Each sound echoes in the vault, it is so empty, but to the vault he comes willingly, a volunteer. My altar, she calls it, so that he must do what one does before an altar, especially if one is the Doctor: either genuflect or desecrate. 

They will have fought before reaching this point, they always do. The fight is what it takes to open him. The fight is what she needs to find herself, somewhere in these echoes. But when the fight has taken them to the unforgivable moment, when the Doctor has intercepted her slap with a hand around her wrist, when he has used the leverage of his body--of height, of position, of advantage--against her (maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to learn a little Venusian), she looks up into his face, and he falters. His eyes widen, and then they narrow, and then his teeth show in something like a snarl, so desperately hurriedly hidden away that if she hadn’t known to look for it, she wouldn’t have thought that it was there. Then he lets her go, sudden and with such a snap that she jerks sharply away.

She pulls her arm in toward her chest. Lucy’s wrist had been this fine. 

There is a cringe Lucy did, a wounded look that Missy is fairly certain the Doctor hated him for causing, even in the excesses of all his forgiveness. Missy thinks she’ll try it out, give it a go. She doesn’t expect it to work, not from her, not with him. But apparently he thinks he’s caused her injury. Not today, not just now; more than now. Apparently he feels he’s done her wrong. 

“And you believe you should atone? You believe I should receive...retribution?” Missy finds her question a bit more breathy than forceful. Still, she lets the thrill beguile her mouth into brightness. “Propitiation, perhaps?”

He hangs his head, and that’s answer enough for both of them.

So it is that Missy leads the Doctor into the sourceless glow of the windows and lowers him to the raw concrete of her uncovered floor. She perches on the tufted upholstery to watch him unlace his brogues, an act whose contemplative deliberateness contrasts so eloquently with its precedent in her memory. Once done, once unshod, he sits for a while with his knees drawn before he shifts himself onto all fours, and from there settles his weight onto his calves. 

He straightens his back, still slow, and at last raises his head and lifts his eyes to hers. Shafts of hollow light pierce the corona of his hair. He is an outline with a person in it, and she wants to pry that person into voice. Or maybe she wants to coax. Isn’t it the same?

Now would be a good time, she thinks with no real intent, for that leash once dreamt of, long ago, or for a rope.

She lets him wait. She lets him look at her, waiting, and maybe he is remembering, too, the warmth of the nameless guard, the unwanted gaze of all those people, the heat of the Master’s insatiability, his fury. 

Maybe he is thinking about their intimacy, now, here in this big empty warehouse, this church of chairs and charades, sanctuary and consequences, where he’s so much more exposed. 

She stands because he is waiting for her. She paces a circle around him, studying this face as the changing angles of light illumine the geometries of bone and space. His hands rest on his thighs. The fabric of his soft sleeves stretch over his wrists and palms. She walks so as to make her footsteps fall and her skirts sigh. 

Missy stops in front of him and puts the tip of a boot between the Doctor’s knees to edge them apart. Another quarter turn around him, and she slips her foot beneath his bare ankle, nudging it up to tilt him onto his toes. She returns to step into his body, fisting her hand in his hair to tip his head back as far as it will go, turning his face toward her above him, her leg along his torso, the vamp of her shoe tight against him. He is her offertory bull, pulsing neck beneath her hands, and she is the knife, too, and the dog and the snake and the scorpion. 

He’s remarkably quiet, but he is, sometimes, when she has him concentrating.

She turns his face into her waist, and strokes and smooths his hair, and then she backs away. 

“Lean forward,” she says, circling behind. She lets him pitch himself to the precipice of balance. She places the toe of her boot experimentally on his heel. She traces the heel of her boot along his naked sole. 

He shudders, and the velvet tails of his jacket slip, a satin curtain of deep and indiscernible colour in the gloom falling open and forming pools around his hips. 

“Give me your hands--”

She wrenches his arms, pulling him into place, his arse lifting, his hoodie riding up.

“Lay your feet flat; against the floor again--”

He’s breathing hard, shallow as she uses him like a lever. She presses her heel into his foot. A little at a time: the flesh is pliant, and then it can’t yield any more, caught between the unforgiving surface and the mass she’s applying. And there’s the torque, too, on his shoulders--

“Please,” he says, in his small and wide-eyed voice.

The body and blood, this human concept, how it fits him, solo celebrant of her mystery. 

But really, who is pleasing whom this time? Who is here to be appeased?

Missy closes her eyes to turn the sound to impulse--transubstantiation--need, want; motive force, pound force. She grinds into him, lifts her foot to inspect the result, the half moon impression of her Spanish heel. She aligns again with the tender spot. The complicated anatomy comes down to such a simple feeling. She puts her weight down, and she imagines the equation, measures the stress and strain, the mathematics of compression and tension, pictures the slender steel post of a slimmer shoe, calculates at him the casual, violent physics of puncture. 

Finally, finally, he shouts, and, restricted by the pressure in his ribcage, it is a single, constrained sound that bounces across all the too-sharp surfaces. 

She holds him in position while he gasps for his short breaths, their arms at right angles from the fulcrum of their hands. There is still the bracelet of bruises forming around her wrist. 

She drops him. He falls, not quite sprawling against the cold and porous floor. Not quite the wanton, leaky mess he had been, before, with his face pressed into polished wood. 

He’d rolled himself into a little ball, back then, until the Master had picked him up and dragged him into his pup tent to recover in its relative, flimsy shelter. The Master had bandaged the scraped and battered feet, and cleaned the freckled cheek, and kissed the salt-wet lip. He’d sent the humans away, the ritual display over, his need for privacy sudden and refractory. 

Missy crouches to touch two fingers to the darkening contusion. The Doctor shivers, but otherwise he is still. 

“Don’t you know how to draw away?” she asks. She isn’t sure he hears her. 

She should run. She should go out the door while he cannot (or will not) chase her. She should leave him locked and buried and gilded and cloistered. 

He doesn’t even close his eyes! That light all but cuts through them, picking the palest colour out of a background of shadowed grey. If he had asked it, she wouldn’t stay. But he only inhales and exhales, so she moves her hand to his back, where she rests her palm between the blades of his shoulders. It’s proof of the magic of oblation, the magic of free will.

She measures the rising and falling of his chest. She watches him breathe. This is the feeling that fills the room.


End file.
